Inkfear
by featherfinn
Summary: First off: DON'T EVEN READ THIS SUMMARY IF YOU HAVEN'T READ INKHEART AND INKSPELL! That said...Orpheus writes the words that will bring Dustfinger back, but when he reads them aloud, everything goes terribly wrong. 5 chapters. R&R.
1. Fated Words

This story is dedicated to Larssy and all other Basta fans/fangirls out there...

* * *

Nearly a month had passed since Dustfinger surrendered himself to the White Women to save Farid, who had become his son. Now Farid, Fenoglio, and Meggie and her family awaited the words that Orpheus was writing to bring him back.

It was especially difficult for Farid, as he had promised to serve fat old Cheeseface hand and foot while Cheeseface waited for an idea to reveal itself to him. Orpheus claimed that he loved Dustfinger, but Farid knew that he did not, not the way he himself did, at any rate, or Orpheus would find a way to bring him back without asking for reward.

Roxane still would not put faith into Orpheus or his words, nor would she tell him or anyone else where she kept Dustfinger's body. She had suffered too much already from dashed hope and had vowed never to raise them again. From her experience she knew death to be both final and forever.

But Dustfinger's was not a normal death. It was a bargain. And bargains can be broken.

Moodily, Fenoglio and Meggie sat with Farid in the large tent, set apart from the Black Prince's camp in the thick woods. The tent, which was surrounded on all sides by tall, thick trees, was quite high-ceilinged—a very tall man could stand upright in it—and was made of brown and green fabrics that were coarse to the touch.

The tent, dimly lit by hand-fashioned, tin or brass lanterns that hung from the tent's supporting poles, was spacious inside, the walls sloping inward only slightly, the high poles that it rested on holding the ceiling almost flat. It was one of the Black Prince's best tents, and, for Dustfinger's sake, he had lent it to Orpheus.

In shape, the tent was rather like an egg, with one end rounded and blunt and the opposite end pointed and narrow. The narrow part was the front, where the tent flap of a doorway was. The rounded part, where Orpheus had recently shut himself, was separated from the small outer room by a wide, thick length of cloth. He was chasing another sudden but elusive idea that had come to him. A 'revelation' as he had called it this time.

Fenoglio, Meggie, and Farid, refusing to hope but rigid with excitement and impatience, quietly sat on the rugs that made up the floor, their legs folded beneath the low table before them. They had just sent messages with a young and recently-orphaned boy, whom Fenoglio paid well to run errands such as these, to Meggie's parents and to Roxane, asking them to come immediately to the tent where Orpheus was staying.

Two hours had passed since Orpheus shut himself into the tent's large, inner room. Through the curtain, the sound of pacing could be heard, along with the rustling of paper and the tinkle of a pen being dipped into an inkwell. It scratched noisily on the paper. Orpheus was muttering to himself, the way he always did when he wrote.

"Farid!" his voice barked suddenly from the other side of the wall. Farid cringed, running his hand through his dark, medium-length hair, a habit he had picked up from Dustfinger when he was alive. "Meat pie and a flask of red wine!" Orpheus ordered. Scowling, Farid stalked to one of the small wooden cupboards, set against the tent's walls, to gather these things. He'd had to use his own money that his skill with fire earned him to buy these things, since Cheeseface was so gluttonous. Otherwise, Farid feared, Cheeseface would eat all the food in the entire camp before long.

Meggie rose silently to accompany Farid, pushing her long, golden hair from her lovely face. He never said anything, but she knew that Farid appreciated it when she accompanied him as he served Orpheus. It helped him to keep his temper when her fair, slender hand was in his strong, tan one.

The stiffness slowly began to leave Farid when Meggie put her hand on his shoulder. She knew that he still blamed himself over Dustfinger's death, even though, in earnest truth, it was not his fault. In fact, were it not for Farid, Dustfinger would have died long before.

Fenoglio sighed resignedly as he watched the two of them disappear through the slit in the huge curtain, carrying out Orpheus' demands. He, too, despised the man, but for Dustfinger, Fenoglio could put up with him. Absently, he stirred his mug of ale and took a sip, stroking his shaggy beard.

A few minutes passed before Meggie and Farid returned, with Orpheus, who was smiling in that annoying, condescendingly smug way. He held a long piece of parchment in his hand, presumably the words that would bring Dustfinger out of the shadowlands.

"I am quite sure that what I have written will be effectual," he stated pompously, handing the paper to Fenoglio. "Just the same, I thought I had better let you have a look at it."

Fenoglio rose and gingerly took the parchment from Orpheus, casting a glance at Meggie, who stood behind him with Farid. From the expression on her face, Fenoglio could tell that Orpheus had refused to let her read the words, and she was most unhappy about it.

Fenoglio read the words carefully. Everyone watched his face, Orpheus with his fat arms folded importantly across his chest. Fenoglio's lips moved ever so slightly as he read the words to himself in an inaudible whisper. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he analyzed Orpheus' work. He hal-smiled briefly. When Fenoglio finished, he nodded his approval.

"I think it will do the trick," he said to Orpheus, eyes shining with excitement. Meggie's and Farid's faces lit up. Orpheus smirked.

"I knew it would. Now give it to me. I will read it aloud." Fenoglio handed back the paper. Orpheus took it and cleared his throat. _"For the first time in history, fire was present in the world of the White Women," _He read,_ "the fire which they feared, yet yearned for. The flames danced on the fingertips of the charming fire-eater who commanded its dance, who whispered to the fire and understood its language."_

Orpheus' words hung in the air; one could reach out and touch them. His beautiful voice brought to life the crackling, whispering words of flame. Farid almost jumped when he thought he heard Dustfinger whispering back, and had to glance about the tent's interior before he realized that his master was not there. In a melancholy yet expectant manner, he turned his attention to the words.

"_The White Women, who are said to have no feeling, felt love for Dustfinger, the man who fire obeyed. But it was Dustfinger's love that affected the White Women most. It was for love that he had exchanged his life for that of the boy Farid. It was for love that he had left the world he knew, love that enabled him to follow them willingly to their world._

"_Any time they ventured out, the songs people sang, songs of Dustfinger's love and his great sacrifice, reached their ears. So many loved Dustfinger, and so many now missed him._

"_More and more often, the white women stayed by his side, neglecting to come for the dead and dying in the world of daylight. They, too, were beginning to love Dustfinger, the man who could tame and befriend fire._

"_As time went on, their love for him turned to compassion, and the sadness that crept into his eyes like a shadow when he thought of his home and the world he loved and missed so much broke their hearts._

"_The tears streaming down his beautiful, scarred face as he performed tricks with fire cut them deeply, and they wailed and mourned because of his anguish. At last, the White Women decided to let him return to his home._

"_That very day the White Women cut open a portal through which he could return. Once more, flesh and life would be united, exactly as they had been before."_

Meggie glanced up from Orpheus' face. Something in the middle of the tent was taking form. At first, it had seemed to be only a trick of the light. But the mist gathering in that area began to thicken and grow, slowly, very slowly. She nudged Farid's arm and pointed discreetly. Soon everyone but Orpheus was watching it. Meggie glanced at him, hoping it would not distract him from reading, but he had not noticed. Orpheus continued to read.

"_He had been allowed to return again to the land of the living. His lips smiled, and his eyes opened again to the world he had so loved," _Orpheus finished.

Everyone turned once more the growing shadow with hopeful eyes. Breathlessly, they watched it grow in shape. They could make out the arms and the legs. A hand unfolded itself, stretching its fingers. A booted foot took shape.

On the shoulders a head was molded, and the shoulders became more defined. Their excitement began to turn to shock. The shadow, no longer formless, began to grow in height, a height that was not Dustfinger's.

Color came to the apparition, which they could now see had rather pale skin, dark hair that looked somewhat unwashed, and a leering sneer for a smile. His figure was tall and quite wiry.

When Basta opened his eyes, all four of the people watching him gasped.

Basta's leer deepened. "Hello, again, everyone," he laughed maliciously.

Meggie, horrified as she was, cast a dark glance at Fenoglio. He caught it.

"I told you," he whispered to her "This is no longer my story! It's not my fault! I didn't plan this. This is not the world I created with ink!" But she wasn't paying attention to him anymore.

"B-b-b-but what—why—how," stuttered the helpless Orpheus, flustered and astonished, then, getting a hold of his tongue once more, "this isn't possible!"

"Oh, isn't it?" asked Basta. "Allow me to explain." He crossed his arms and leaned against a thick pole near the tents doorway, barring anyone's escape. He knew that slipping underneath the tent walls was out of the question, for the fabric was held securely in the ground with long, sharp stakes.

Basta eyed his prisoners. "As you know, I was killed by our dear little witch's father," he indicated Meggie, causing Farid to put a protective arm about her shoulders. Basta grinned at him nastily. "Dustfinger was a favorite of the White Women. Day in and day out, he made fire play for them, the fire they so feared yet yearned for.

"But today, things changed. The White Women's demeanor toward your beloved Dustfinger changed entirely. They seemed to love him, and his grief grieved them. His fire no longer seemed to enchant him. They did not even see it. They were watching the tears in his eyes.

"Almost immediately, I knew what was happening. Someone was reading! 'They are trying to get Dustfinger back—the fools!' I thought to myself." Basta stopped to glare wickedly at Meggie. "Of course, I assumed it was either you or your father, the Bluejay, but it appears I was mistaken. Not that it matters. I still wanted revenge—on you, your father, and on Dustfinger! I knew the best way to get that was to keep your beloved Dustfinger in the shadowlands forever. So I waited.

"Soon, the White Women made a small opening for Dustfinger to leave their realm. He was walking toward it slowly, as if he didn't quite believe it to be real. So I made a dash for it, and beat him through it by a mere inch. Of course, I had to knock him out of the way, back again into the shadowlands. I had the element of surprise on my side. You should have seen his face! It was the second time I had seen him look so stricken, and the last, for the portal closed behind me.

"It did not take long for me to locate you. How stupid of the Bluejay to dump me into a ditch, with nothing to keep me from leaving!"

He now took out the thing that Meggie had hoped more than anything to never see again.

"I even still had my knife on me," he chuckled as he flicked open his switchblade and checked its sharpness with his thumb. "Your father really is a fool."

Just then the tent flap was pushed open. In stepped Mo and Resa, Meggie's parents. They stopped dead in their tracks at the sight of Basta standing there, alive again.

"What is it?" asked a voice behind them, sounding anxious. "Is Dustfinger there—is he really there?" Roxane pushed past them before either could stop her. When she saw Basta, she gasped.

"Well, hello, my dear Roxane," Basta purred. "I bet you didn't think you would see me again, eh? And now, oh joy! Now that Dustfinger is out of the way, I don't have any competition!" Roxane went white. Basta took a menacing step toward her.

In a flash, Mo was between Basta and the terrified Roxane. "Don't you dare come near her!" he shouted angrily.

"What are you going to do?" Basta sneered. "You don't have your sword this time, Bluejay." Mo didn't say anything. He just stood there, looking up at Basta, who was immensely taller than everyone in the room, but a mere few inches taller than Mo. "Or," he mocked, "are you so clever that you don't need one? But perhaps your little girl can read one into being for you." He laughed at his joke. "No, nothing can stand in my way now. I don't fear death anymore, now that I have been there, and I certainly don't fear you!" With that, he lunged at Mo with his knife slashing through the air.

Mo shoved Resa and Roxane out of the way and sidestepped nimbly, catching Basta's arm.

Resa pulled Roxane over to where Meggie stood, behind Farid, who was trying to protect her, and Fenoglio. This done, Resa glanced around the tent for something she could use as a weapon. Mo needed her help.

"Farid," she whispered, "help me pull up this tent-stake, quietly—and hurry!"

Basta had freed himself, and now he and Mo were circling each other. Basta, of course was ranting at him, trying to provoke him. Mo would not lose his composure.

"Come on, Bluejay, I've heard the songs; you are a mighty warrior! Surely you can defeat me without a weapon like I have." Again he lunged at Mo. Again Mo dodged, but as he did so, his head cracked against a low-hanging, unlit lantern, large and made of brass. He fell to the ground, black spots dancing before his eyes, and in the midst of them, Basta raising his knife high into the air for the plunge.

"You killed me, Bluejay, so now I kill you!" he cried with glee, and the knife plummeted through the air. But Mo wasn't watching him. He was looking past him.

Through the darkness gathering before his eyes, Mo saw Resa rushing in with a large stake raised above her head, blunt end up, for she was not a killer. She was running straight at Basta.

Basta turned his head to see what the Bluejay was staring at. Whack! Something hard hit his hand. The knife flew from his grasp. Basta howled in pain and jumped sideways to face Resa. The stake came crashing up against his jaw. Damp earth and small clumps of grass flew off as it made contact. Still utterly surprised, Basta stumbled toward her. Resa swung the tent-stake at the side of his head, but this time he was prepared. He caught it in his hand. "Gotcha," he hissed slowly, grinning at her, his face in hers. Then something hit him hard in the back of the knee.

Basta collapsed. Something struck his back, knocking the breath out of him. He gasped for air and turned his head slightly. There was Mo, holding a dented lantern and supporting himself against a tent-pole, his foot rushing at Basta's head.

It felt like something had exploded in his brain. Basta stumbled to the tent flap. But as he opened it, he turned again to face those in the room. With the hateful leer back on his long, bony face, he growled, "Don't think I won't be back to finish this." Then he staggered out of the tent.

Resa was tending to Mo's injuries, Farid had Basta's knife.

"But…Dustfinger…" Roxane whimpered, tears welling in her eyes.

"The words—just read the words again! Maybe it will work this time!" cried Farid chokingly.

Fenoglio just sighed and shook his head.

"It won't work anymore," muttered Orpheus. "I don't dare try it again. What if something worse happens?" Orpheus paused. "I will need time to think of a new idea. Farid, bring me some ale and bread and cheese for the important task I have ahead of me." He straightened proudly and strode into his section of the tent.

Farid's shoulders were shaking, and he muttered to himself incoherently. Meggie put a comforting, if shaking, hand on his arm and leaned her head against his shoulder. She was trembling all over. The knowledge that Basta was alive again overcame her with terror and dread. She knew that he would be back, and soon—this time with not only a vengeance, but with a plan in mind for getting it. Basta always got what he wanted, one way or another. For safety, Meggie, her family, and her friends would most likely have to leave the Black Prince's camp to go into hiding somewhere else.

But for the moment, Meggie could ignore these facts. There would be a time for thinking on them later. Right now, Farid needed her.

"Don't worry, Farid," she whispered. "We can still find a way to bring him back, somehow." Farid wrapped his arms around her and let his tears fall.

* * *

I was so sad when Basta died in Inkspell. Then one day I said to my sister, "Hey! Wouldn't it be great if, when they were trying to bring back Dustfinger, they brought back Basta instead?!"

"NO!!!"

(my sister is a Dustfinger fangirl...) Anyway, that's how the idea was born. Note to Dustfinger fan/fangirls/_rabid_ fangirls: plz don't kill me.


	2. A Greater Power

FINALLY!! I have written the second chapter to my Inkheart Fanfic! I'm just sorry it took so long. The problem was trying to strike the right chord, ya know?

Anyway, I'm sorry also about the length of it; I can't write short things! So just read, enjoy, and then criticize, or whatever.

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What Orpheus read had not been enough to bring Dustfinger back to life. But things unseen were stirring in the realm of the White Women. The effect of Orpheus' words was still felt; what he had read remained true even now. Something was on the brink of happening. All that it needed was a nudge; a few words read by the tongue of one who could give them life and breath, awakening the power already in them.

Nobody knew this, not Meggie nor her family, not Orpheus the great writer, not Farid, not Fenoglio.

The only one who suspected it was Basta, and he would do everything in his power to keep it from happening.

In his heart, Basta regarded written words with dread—partly because he could not know their meaning, but mostly because he had seen first-hand the power they possessed. This time, however, it was Basta who wanted words written, words for himself, to protect him from the power they held, and also words for Dustfinger, to keep him from ever returning. Should Dustfinger return, he, Basta, would surely find himself again in the shadowlands.

For Basta knew that he had taken the place of Dustfinger when he came back to the land of the living. All that the writer or the reader needed to do was to send Basta back in exchange for Dustfinger, so that the delicate balance of life and death would not be upset.

For several days, he watched the Bluejay and those with him as they packed their things and prepared to set out. Through the dense forest they trod, in the dead of night, with nothing to light their way but the boy Farid's tiny flames.

They were journeying to a cave several hours away where, the Black Prince had told them, they would hopefully be safe from Basta. When he heard this, Basta had chuckled to himself. No one could ever be safe from him.

--

From the small mouth of a cave, Mo, dressed in green trousers, a brown tunic that was belted around his middle with a leather band, and a dark-blue cloak, surveyed the skies, which were growing paler with dawn. The light exposed for the first time the cave's surroundings: dense brush, bushes that grew waist high, and rocks, flat gray in color. There were few trees about, the cave being located up on the side of a cliff-like formation. It had been a difficult climb to its mouth.

The mouth of the cave opened up onto a flat shelf, much like a platform, on which grew the brush and bushes that hid the entrance quite well. Inside, the cave was spacious, high-ceilinged, extending back from the entrance a full ten meters. From wall to wall, it was much narrower, but wide enough for four grown men to lay end-to-end on the ground.

They had brought with them a few lanterns. These, placed on various shelves and alcoves in the walls, lit the cave, albeit dimly, casting long, flickering shadows on the wall. Their light could not be visible from outside.

Mo and Fenoglio had tried to convince Roxane to accompany them, but, as everyone had guessed beforehand, she refused, stating that her place was with her children, now more than ever before. Roxane claimed that they would go to a secret place, which she had prepared for such times as these. A couple of the Black Prince's men had gone with her for protection.

Mo was weary from the long night journey, as was everybody else. But more than that, throughout the journey he had felt that someone was following them; yet he heard nothing, saw nothing.

Farid, he knew, sensed it too. 'I swear, the boy can smell danger,' he thought as he ducked into the cave, looking on the tired boy with admiration. Farid was slumped against the cave wall, his eyes closed in a fitful sleep, the kind brought on by sorrow and fear. Beside him, also leaning against the cave wall, were several supply sacks full of food and clothing; one of them serving as a pillow for Farid's head.

Farid wore the brown trousers that had replaced his jeans some time ago, and a green tunic over his T-shirt, the one Dustfinger had bought him in the other world; the one Farid would never take off.

Meggie, clad in a plain, long-sleeved brown dress, lay curled up on the opposite side of the cave, beside her mother, sleeping lightly. It looked like the slightest noise would wake her. Her bare feet were tucked up in the skirt of her dress for warmth. Her gray cloak, which reached just to her knees, Meggie had closed tightly around herself, her hood pulled over her head, shadowing her face. It almost made Meggie blend into the rock behind her.

Resa, uncloaked and in a green dress with long, flowing sleeves, was sleeping beside Meggie, whose head leaned against her shoulder. Her dark-blonde hair had been tied back loosely, along with Meggie's, to keep from getting tangled in the long tree branches during the night journey.

Further back in the cave, Orpheus lay on his back, snoring. He alone of anyone was able to sleep soundly in any situation. The large, white shirt he wore was unbelted, and his brown trousers were a bit too small for him. He wore boots, which were covered in mud.

Mo cast him a rather disdainful glance, then turned to Fenoglio. "You may as well rest also; I can take the first watch."

Fenoglio shook his head, pulling the sleeves of his baggy, brown shirt over his hands. "No, you need your rest, I can handle the first watch myself." Mo was about to protest, but Fenoglio stopped him. In a low, somber tone, he said, "I don't sleep anymore anyway."

Mo did not need to look into the old man's eyes to understand his meaning. He simply nodded, then walked into the cave, his leather boots making hardly a sound against the rocky floor, and leaned back against the stone wall beside Resa. In his hand, Mo held a sword, one of the several weapons the Black Prince had supplied for them.

He had taken off the bow and the quiver of arrows, the arrows that were fitted with blue jay feathers. It made him glance down at the scar on his arm; the long, blue sleeve of his shirt, which he wore beneath his tunic, was rolled up to expose the harsh-looking marks in his flesh. Again, Mo thought about his role as the Bluejay. However reluctantly he had accepted it, the role was his. Already it was changing him.

Mo felt as though he saw the world through two different pairs of eyes—his own, and those of the Bluejay. He wondered if the two sides would forever be in conflict with one another.

Was it he, Mo, who lay next to his wife, ready to spring up to protect if necessary, or the Bluejay? He felt the hardness close over his heart like a hard shell once more. The hardness concerned him. What did it mean? Was he becoming heartless and cold, unfeeling, like those he was fighting against?

He glanced down at Resa. 'No; it is not heartless to want to protect those one loves,' something in him whispered. The thought was reassuring to him. Holding Resa close, he too closed his eyes and gave way to slumber.

Mo did not wake when, several minutes later, Meggie stood slowly and tiptoed out of the cave, snatching up her book bag, which never left her side, as she did so and slipping its strap over her shoulder so it hung at her side. Nor did he awaken when she cried out mutedly from outside, or when Fenoglio stumbled into the cave and collapsed, lying crumpled on the ground at the entrance, silenced by pain.

But into his dreams, there crept a foreboding, dark and cold, foretelling of destruction. "Bluejay," it whispered to him, its voice like a biting wind, ripping through him. "Death is close by, dear Bluejay."

Even before he reached consciousness, Mo felt an evil presence intrude upon the place. He was drawing his sword and leaping to his feet before he even knew that he was awake. Mo's eyes, which had flown open on their own, now cleared.

Before him stood Basta, a rag wrapped around his head sloppily where Mo had kicked him days before. His clothes were rumpled and dirty—his black pants ripped, his boots muddied, his white shirt stained with dirt.

Behind him stood two men whom Mo was sure he had seen before; most likely in the Adderhead's castle.

Basta was grinning maliciously. "Good morning, Bluejay," his voice ran out. "It's a delight to see you again."

"It really is the Bluejay," whispered one of the men, a short, stocky man with a black beard and black eyes, shaggy-haired and cruel-seeming, "look at the scar on his arm!"

"See how he stands, too?" the other murmured, taller than the first, and burly; beardless, with short, brown hair and a hard, mean face. "And look at his eyes—so cold they are. It must be him!"

The noise rose Farid out of his sleep. When he saw Basta standing there, he jumped up with a cry of fury. Flames shot up about Farid's feet and, with an animal roar, rushed toward where Basta stood, his knife, Farid now saw, pressed against Meggie's throat.

Just shy of engulfing Basta in a deadly inferno, the flames extinguished themselves.

In an angry growl, Basta said menacingly, "Don't do that again, or—," he indicated the white-faced, tight-lipped Meggie, her eyes wide with fear, as she helplessly stood just to the side of and behind Basta, her thin arms held tightly to her sides by Basta's two accomplices.

"What do you want?" Mo asked slowly, in a low voice. He had dropped his sword on the floor before Basta in surrender. From the expression on Basta's ever-readable face, Mo could see that he knew he had the upper hand, and was enjoying it immensely.

"Words, Bluejay," Basta stated smugly. "I want you to write me words." He signaled one of the men with his hand. Obediently, the man let go of Meggie, then, retreating several paces, un-strapped from his side a bow, which he fitted with an arrow and aimed at Meggie. The other man then let go of Meggie's arm and backed away so that the arrow would not strike him if it were shot. "Write me words, or your girl dies."

"No!" Farid cried out, anguish in his voice. He took a step toward Basta, then halted in despair. He turned tear-filled eyes on Mo. "Please," he begged, "do it." Farid already had lost Dustfinger; he could not bear to lose the only other person in the world whose life was dear to him.

But Mo had already decided that he would do as Basta said. "I will." Farid's shoulders slumped in tense relief.

"Scribbler," Basta called out, and for the first time everyone noticed Fenoglio, crumpled at the cave's entrance. "Go and wake the man who calls himself Orpheus. Hurry!" he added when Fenoglio's effort to rise came to nothing.

"I will do it," Resa, standing pale-faced behind Mo, offered. He had not seen her rise, but now she cautiously walked over to where Orpheus lay, still snoring, and shook him.

"What is it?" he demanded crankily; then his eyes lit on Basta.

"I have a job for you," Basta stated as Orpheus stumbled over, Resa's hand on his arm. "I want you to read over the Bluejay's shoulder as he writes and make sure that the words he puts down are the ones I say. If you don't—well, you will, as long as you value your life." He fondled his blade meaningfully.

Orpheus paled, then nodded his head vigorously. "Yes, yes, yes." He gathered up a quill pen and inkwell and several sheets of parchment, then strode shakily over to Mo, who glared coldly at him. Orpheus avoided his eyes as he handed the things to Mo.

For a table, a large boulder that leaned against the cave wall was used. Mo sat at the table, quill pen poised over paper. He sat on a makeshift seat, constructed of sacks and extra clothing, and tried not to glare at Basta.

Rage rose in Mo like a bird that fluttered and battered against his insides, shrieking to be let loose. When he saw Basta, hatred clouded his vision, pounding in his head. The hard shell closed tightly over his heart like a claw. The only thing that restrained him was the sight of his little girl, a mere arrow's flight away from death.

"Tell me what to write," he growled. Behind him, he could hear Orpheus fidgeting nervously, trying to keep his eyes on Mo's paper, which was still blank. Resa and Farid stood against the wall just before his table, along with Fenoglio, who looked to be in pain. Resa had a hand on Farid's shoulder, both to reassure and comfort him and to restrain him.

"Write exactly what I say," said Basta threateningly, then began: _"'Basta foresaw that a day would come when words might be used against him.'"_

In spite of her position as hostage, Meggie had to bite her lip to keep from smiling; the sound of Basta talking about himself in the third person was so amusing.

"'_Cleverly, he sought a way to avert that power from him. From that day, no words, whether for good or for ill, would have any effect on Basta—not words written, not words read. Never again could words be used against him as a weapon.'"_

A nasty gleam came into Basta's eyes as he paused dramatically.

"He has written it down to the word thus far," Orpheus intoned nervously.

"Good," Basta murmured, then grinned before he resumed. _"'As for Dustfinger, still in the Shadowlands…'"_

At these words, everyone jerked suddenly to attention, horror on faces. Orpheus looked up in alarm.

In the small commotion among Dustfinger's friends, no one noticed Meggie quietly slip her notebook and a pen from her book bag. She knew that Basta was aiming to prevent Dustfinger from every returning; not only to save himself, but to further his revenge.

Stealthily, she opened the book and began to write, holding it against her legs, concealed beneath her cloak. Meggie wrote without looking at the paper. She did not need to; the words almost seemed to write themselves. Her finger served as a guide to keep her lines of writing straight.

Basta went on._ "'Dustfinger was doomed to remain in the White Women's realm for all time, never to return to those he loved, to the land of the living. The balance could not be upset…'"_

Meggie was writing furiously, trying to move as little as possible so that no one would notice. At the same time, she tried to get Farid's attention, but she had to be incredibly discreet and subtle.

She stared at Farid, whose eyes were on Basta. Meggie's eyes bored into him. 'Farid,' she thought at him, 'Farid, look at me!'

Farid felt eyes on him, and turned his head. Meggie was staring at him urgently; he could see in her eyes that she was trying to communicate with him. He nodded to show that she had his attention.

Meggie glanced quickly at the arrow aimed at her head, then back at Farid, meaning in her eyes. She could tell that Farid did not understand. She glanced at it again, this time focusing on the string, pulled back, ready to launch the deadly arrow. With a single finger, she discreetly drew in the air a picture of the string, bent back in readiness, at the same time mouthing the word, "String."

Farid nodded, and mouthed back the word, "String." Meggie's eyes lit up as she nodded slowly.

Then she drew the string again, and mouthed the word, "Fire." She watched Farid's eyes. He did not understand. She drew the bent bowstring in the air once more, more slowly, then with two fingers, imitated a pair of scissors cutting the string, severing it near the middle, where the arrow was notched. Again, she mouthed the word, "Fire," holding up her thumb and index finger, meaning a tiny flame.

Realization crept into Farid's eyes, and he nodded. He understood perfectly now.

Basta had finished dictating.

"Please," Orpheus begged, "please, leave Dustfinger out of this—don't let him read it aloud!"

"Shut up!" Basta barked. "One more word out of you, and I will bring about your death quicker than you can blink."

Orpheus shut his mouth despairingly.

"And now, Bluejay," Basta said slowly and with relish, "read."

Mo nodded. He stood, turning slowly toward Basta, paper in his hand. Everyone could feel the words in the air as Mo read, all eyes on his lips. All eyes, except for those of Meggie and Farid.

"Now!" Meggie whispered.

Instantly, a tiny flame sprung up on the bowstring, right above the place where it bent at the arrow. The fiery tongue licked at it, severing it neatly, and then died out.

The bowman, who had been pulling back on arrow and string, suddenly felt his hand pulling back on nothing. It surprised him, like someone who picks up a large bag, expecting it to be extremely heavy, only to find that it is full of feathers.

The man's hand kept traveling back through the air until it hit him in the mouth. He nearly fell backward.

The threat gone, Meggie now moved freely. Mo had nearly reached the part about Dustfinger. "Mo, stop!"

Startled, Mo looked up at her. In his hands, the paper with Basta's evil words burst into flame. Mo dropped it. By the time it hit the floor, it was no more than ashes.

In the shocked silence, Meggie began to read aloud: _"'Dustfinger had not returned to the world of the living; the law of life and death forbade it from happening. In his stead returned a villain, bent on keeping Dustfinger ever from coming back.'"_

"Get her!" shouted Basta to his men. Immediately, they lunged at her, reaching for the book.

Thinking quickly, Meggie closed the book and hurled it to her father. He caught it in mid-air. "Read!" Meggie ordered. Mo needed no prompting, opening to the first page, where she had written the words. Her lettering was a bit difficult to decipher, it not being entirely neat because of the circumstances under which they were written, but they were legible.

Mo read slowly and carefully. _"'But the love that Dustfinger's friends had for him was drawing him ever from the shadowlands, calling him nearer, calling him back to life. But the chains of Law still held him.'"_

Basta and his men, turning from Meggie, now dashed madly for Mo, knives drawn. Imitating Meggie, Mo tossed the book to Orpheus, who had retreated from the fray.

Following suit, he too began to read. _"'The man Basta could no longer be exchanged for Dustfinger, whose sacrifice had saved the life of the one who was as a son to him, for the balance would ever be upset. Yet there was another law, greater than the law of life and death. It was the law of Greater Love.'" _

Again, the reading was stopped by Basta and his accomplices. Orpheus threw the book to Meggie, who darted to Mo's side. Confused, the villains stopped, not sure of what to do, as Orpheus ran, quickly for his size, to join Meggie and Mo. The three were joined by Resa and Fenoglio. And about them there sprung up a wall of flame, protecting them.

Farid whispered the fire-words, causing the flame to hiss and snarl, advancing slowly toward Basta. He could see Basta's face, sallow behind the colorful wall of flame, until the flames rose to hide it. "Shh," Farid whispered, and the fire became a quiet but roiling wall, soundless and powerful, hot enough to melt iron.

Mo had opened to the place where Orpheus had had to stop. He held the book so that everyone could see the words on the pages, written in a flowing but difficult script.

The power of one reader is a great one. But today, that power would be threefold, for in one voice, Mo, Meggie, and Orpheus read aloud the words written for love and for Dustfinger.

"'_The law of life and death bowed before the power of Love. For it was Dustfinger's love that brought back life and pushed death to its knees. And now it was love that freed him. The chains that bound him in the White Women's realm now broke. For only on the basis of love can one return from that world to the world of life and not upset the balance.'"_

The voices of Fenoglio and Resa now joined in. Although they did not add any power to the words, their voices added strength.

"'_Dustfinger at last was allowed to truly return to his home. For the sake of love, for which entire worlds move, the White Women again opened the door for Dustfinger to live once more. In the secret place, Dustfinger's soul and body united once more, and he opened his eyes unto the world he had left. Dustfinger was finally home.'"_

Silence ensued; a waiting silence. Mo placed the book in Meggie's hands, then turned to Farid. From the ground nearby, he picked up his sword.

The hardness closed over Mo's heart; the rage that had been fluttering inside him now broke out, but in a cool, frighteningly controlled way. His face was transformed by an intense anger and hatred, concentrated at his enemies beyond the protective fire.

"Put out your flames, Farid," he ordered calmly. Obediently, Farid did so. The wall of flame dissolved into nothing, and the Bluejay stepped forward, sword raised in his hand, ready to deal with Basta and his cohorts. But the place where they had stood was deserted. They had escaped.

The Bluejay ran to the cave's mouth. Basta was gone. 'The coward,' he thought, cursing silently. He would have pursued and put an end to them, but for the voice that called him back. It was gentle, loving, and it penetrated the hard shell of anger about his heart.

"Mo." It was Resa. She stood behind him.

It was not now with the eyes of the Bluejay that Mo turned to see Resa. He lowered the sword, then dropped it on the ground. Resa was staring at him, fright and confusion in her eyes, the same that Mo felt in his heart.

Pain came into Mo's eyes as he looked at her. "Resa," he breathed, and walked slowly toward her, then took her in his arms.

Resa could feel him shaking.

"Mo?" Meggie began when the long embrace terminated, "Do you think the words worked? Do you think Dustfinger could really be back this time?" Doubt was beginning to cloud her voice.

Mo didn't answer for a long time. At last, he turned to look her in the eye, and said in a quiet tone, "I don't know." There were many things Mo did not know right now. He sighed. "That question will have to answer itself."


	3. Mo and the Bluejay

Sitting alone on a hard rock in the middle of a bunch of trees, Orpheus brooded over his wounded pride. Apparently, he had not been needed to bring Dustfinger back. There was no glory for him; no reward. Not even a returned Dustfinger to give him a heartfelt—and, in his own opinion, much deserved—thank you. Instead it was the girl, the little golden-haired brat, who wrote the words that he himself read aloud. Even so there was still nothing to show for it. Still, she was congratulated for her courage and her quick thinking. No one thought of Orpheus then.

Moodily he chewed on a piece of stale bread and dry meat that hardly his idea of a good meal, for it was flaky and left crumbs on his white shirt. But it was all they would let him have back in the Black Prince's camp. It had been Mo's decision to rejoin them, for safety's sake. As he had put it, together they could all protect each other. To hide alone any longer was foolhardy.

Of these things Orpheus cared little. That was why he had left their company—for a time, at least.

Orpheus rose from the boulder slowly, painfully, groaning with effort as he did so. He yawned in a self-pitying manner, turned, and came face-to-face with a man holding a knife, a man in a torn, dirty, and singed shirt.

"Good evening," Basta purred, his mouth twisted into a hateful smirk. "We have a job for you."

"'M-me? But what—why—?'" Orpheus choked out. Basta motioned for Orpheus to look behind him.

Orpheus swiveled, and gasped. There stood at least a dozen soldiers, heavily armed and watching him. But they were not the ones who put a chill through Orpheus' heart. In their midst and in all his glory, there stood a man who, from having read _Inkheart_, Orpheus could only identify as the Adderhead.

--

Roxane stood before her home, so dark, so silent, so empty. She did not know what drove her to this place; it was not the place she wanted to be, but the place her feet had taken her. She had only followed.

Everything looked so dismal—the barn, the hen house, the stable, the empty garden. The place was absolutely lifeless. For several minutes she simply stared blankly at the sight. The moon cast its blue light over the buildings. It was a lonely picture. Roxane did not feel she could stand any more loneliness. She turned her back on the farm and ran toward the edge of the forest nearby. Silently she stole through the trees, glancing around herself anxiously, for she did not wish to be followed.

Leaves rustled in the cold night air, twigs snapped. A soft breeze blew down from the dark, towering treetops; Roxane felt its breath in her long hair.

It seemed that the whole while she had been in hiding with her family, a longing to be beside her husband had been growing in her heart. That night it had been strongest. The desire had grown so intense, it woke her from a sound sleep.

Quickly she had dressed in warmer clothing and slipped past the guards, whom the Black Prince had sent to protect her family and herself, and stepped from the hiding place into the open air. She wished to go to the place where Dustfinger's body was hidden.

Her heart pounded as she neared the place. It was a small clearing in the thickest part of the forest, at the foot of a small, gray, cliff-like formation. With the vines and leaves that covered it, one would have passed by the narrow crevice in the rock without a second glance.

Roxane stopped here and listened. She scanned the area behind her, assuring herself that she had left no discernable trail to follow, then ducked into the room of stone.

The interior was large and square, with almost-perfect corners, all covered with cobwebs and vines. The ceiling was high and arched, the floor was bare stone, except for a few dried leaves and some dirt here and there.

In the center of the room stood a stone slab, and atop that lay a large box, crafted of beautifully-carved wood. At the sight of it, Roxane's eyes filled with tears. Slowly she moved forward, reaching out her hand to remove its ornate lid, on which was painted a series of interwoven vines, flower-studded, deep green in color with pale blue shadows. The vines framed a single, vibrantly-colored flame.

A tear fell from Roxane's eye, landing in the center of the flame. With the sleeve of her black dress, she wiped it away. She began to lift up the lid, but a soft noise from behind stopped her. Roxane stiffened, then spun about.

Her heart almost stopped with fright, for Basta now loomed over her, his wiry frame blocking the doorway and his arms folded across his chest. He was smiling smugly. Beside him stood the Adderhead, staring coldly.

"Dear Roxane," Basta spoke in lilting tones.

Roxane whitened. She took a step backward. "What do you want? Have you now come to deny me even the body of my dead husband? Is it not enough that he is gone? What more do you want to take from me?" She trembled, her red lips standing out in her place face, but she stood bravely between them and Dustfinger's resting place. Smirking, Basta stepped forward.

--

A man hurried through the Black Prince's camp, Roxane's son close at his side. The camp was quiet, for most were sleeping, though before a few of the tents small fires had been kindled, wary men huddling around them, speaking in low tones.

The man's eyes searched the faces until he found the Prince's near one of the larger fires, sitting on the ground and talking with the men, a grim smile on his face. The man rushed to his side.

"Sire," he whispered, "I must speak to the Bluejay."

"What is the matter?" asked the Black Prince, eyeing the man.

He dropped his eyes in shame. "Bring me to the Bluejay, sir, and I shall inform both of you."

"This way," the Black Prince led the man and Jehan to a fire on the other side of camp. The Bluejay sat alone, staring into the flames in contemplation. A word from the Black Prince roused him. "Alner has a matter of importance." Both turned their attention to the man's face. He began.

"As you know, I and Hanven were ordered to protect Roxane and her family, which we have done faithfully—until tonight."

"What happened?" Mo inquired, concern on his face.

"Tell them, boy, for, to my great shame, I was asleep."

Jehan swallowed, nervously fingering the hem on his tunic of brown wool. "I awoke just over an hour ago to see my mother slipping out of the door to our hiding place. The guards were both asleep; all the other nights, one had stayed up to keep watch while we slept. But tonight, the one on guard must have been overpowered by weariness.

"I watched my mother walk out into the night. Something in the way she moved frightened me; it was like she was in a trance, or under a spell. I tried to wake the guards, but I could not. No matter how hard I shook them, they would not awake. So I followed her. She walked all the way to our house, and stopped there for a very long time. Eventually she turned and headed for the woods.

"I knew she was going to see Dustfinger's tomb, so I thought I would go back. But as soon as she entered the woods, I saw a couple of men run after her." He paused, dread and fear on his features. "One of them was the Adderhead."

At those words, the three listening men tensed, but remained silent until Jehan finished.

"I froze. I wanted to warn her, but I knew they would catch me. Instead I followed them a little ways, and heard part of what they were saying. The one with the Adderhead—a tall, slim man with unkempt, black hair and a sallow face—said something about the Adderhead capturing the Bluejay. The Adderhead seemed uncertain, but the man with him assured him that they would catch him tonight. Before they said anything more, I ran back. I found Alner awake, so I told him everything and asked him to bring me here to find the Bluejay—to warn him, and to ask for his help."

The Black Prince and Mo exchanged a glance. "What do you make of it?"

"I don't know," Mo replied, "but it's unsettling to know that Basta is involved in it."

"What should we do?" asked the Black Prince.

Mo thought for several seconds, then asked Jehan, "Do you know where Dustfinger's resting place is?"

Jehan nodded. "Mother took me there once, even though he was not my father. I can remember how to get there."

The Bluejay again fell silent. His initial response was to ask Jehan to bring him to the place alone. He did not want to wait for help to be gathered; loathing made him impatient. But something in him knew that it would be wiser to bring reinforcements, in case something were to go wrong.

"Gather some able, trustworthy men," said Mo decisively. "Bring them here and arm them. Then we shall follow Jehan to Dustfinger's tomb. There may be more of the Adderhead's men there by the time we arrive." The Black Prince and Alner set out immediately, Jehan at their heels.

To himself, Mo whispered, "If they want the Bluejay so badly, then so be it—they shall have him!" His voice was hard and full of hatred and anger. His heart pounded in his chest as he ducked into the small tent. When he reappeared, he wore a gray tunic, over which was flung a dark blue cloak. On his face he wore the leathern mask, decorated with pale yellow, black, and blue feathers. It hid the conflict that he felt within.

Half an hour later, a company of about thirty men was rushing quietly through the forest, swords, knives, axes, and bows and arrows in hand. The Bluejay and Jehan led them. Farid had wanted so badly to accompany them, but the Bluejay strongly forbade him, telling him instead to stay back and protect Meggie and Resa with Fenoglio.

Soft footsteps from leather boots sounded mutedly as they went on. Swords gleamed in the fading moonlight. Looking at the sky, the Bluejay could tell that dawn was fast approaching.

"We're close," hissed Jehan, so faintly that the Bluejay almost did not hear it, then, a few seconds later, "There!" The Black Prince gave a quiet order to halt. The men slowed and grouped together, waiting for the will of their leader, the Bluejay, to be known.

"Wait until I give the word," Mo ordered the Black Prince. "Jehan, hide yourself in the trees. I will go ahead alone."

Before a wall, covered with vines and branches, there stood a circle of at least a dozen soldiers, wearing heavy metal armor and holding long swords, knives, spears. The Adderhead's men. They stood at attention, watchful and waiting.

Mo heard voices from inside the wall. The soldiers stirred, then moved to either side of a small opening that had been stripped of its cover. Out stepped Basta, who held a squirming Roxane by the arms, followed closely by the Adderhead, an ugly look on his face. He nodded to Basta.

Basta shoved Roxane to the earth. She slumped, her legs collapsing beneath herself, her hair falling over her face. Knife carelessly in hand, Basta knelt on the leaf-covered forest floor beside the woman. "You know where he is, don't you?" he whispered maliciously in her ear. Roxane did not reply. "Don't you? Tell me where he is!" He still got no answer, save a muted sob from Roxane.

Basta stood. "You know that I will find him one way or another. On that you may depend." He snickered, the simper on his face deepening. "Bluejay!" he called out. "I know you're there. Step forward! This woman's life depends on it."

"Let her be, Basta," a harsh voice called from the woods. Basta looked toward the place where he heard the voice, a cruel smile on his lips. The Bluejay stepped forth and stood boldly in the center of the clearing. "I am here, so leave her alone. She is of no use to you."

"Ah, Bluejay," Basta sneered. "How good of you to reveal yourself. I knew you would."

A sea of hatred seethed inside of Mo. He longed to rush forward, to kill, but he knew it was not the time yet. Mo fought for control of his emotions as he coolly and collectedly stared down Basta. "This does not involve her, Basta. Let her go."

"Very well," Basta shrugged. He stepped away from Roxane. She rose and stumbled forward, toward the Bluejay.

"Get behind me; into the trees. Your son is there," Mo whispered, and drew his sword. Roxane did as she was told. Basta stepped toward Mo; he now held a sword.

"I've been waiting a long time for this, Bluejay," he growled.

"Forward!" shouted the Bluejay. From the trees sprang the Black Prince's men with a shout. A shocked and dismayed look briefly crossed Basta's face as he lifted his sword to strike, but too late.

The company fell on the Adderhead's soldiers, taken by surprise. Metal clashed in the dawn. The soldiers tried to put up a fight, but they were caught unawares and were outnumbered by double their own number.

The Black Prince, the Bluejay, and their band swiftly relieved the soldiers of their weapons and backed them against the stone wall, holding them at sword- and arrow-point.

The Bluejay stood back and scanned their faces until he saw the one he wanted: the Adderhead. Gripping the hilt of his sword so strongly his hand hurt, the Bluejay stepped forward.

The Adderhead watched him approach with pale face, trembling with fear for his life. The Bluejay stopped a couple feet away from him. His eyes were cold and hard as ice.

Roughly he grabbed the Adderhead by the shoulder of his royal robes and jerked him forward, away from the wall, pressing his blade against the man's throat. In a voice dripping with malice, the Bluejay began to speak. "Do you know how many men you have killed? How many lives you have destroyed?" The Adderhead did not attempt to reply, so paralyzed was he by fear. "Tyrant!" shouted the Bluejay, and the Black Prince's band turned their attention to the two men. With wide eyes, they watched the scene unfold.

The Bluejay did not see them; he saw no one, nothing but the face of the Adderhead before him. His only thoughts were of revenge. "This is for what you did to countless people, taking the lives of the guiltless and of those who bore my likeness." His lip curled with intense hatred. "You act like you are so powerful, but you—you are a coward! You slaughter innocent people; you oppress your subjects! You care not for anyone's wellbeing but your own. You power-hungry monster; you don't deserve to live." His prisoner flinched.

A murmur arose among the men, disbelief on their faces. "What is he going to do?" they asked uneasily. Were they really about to witness an execution? They listened to his angry words.

Talons of steel gripped at Mo's heart. He trembled with fury, and something else that he could not name. His breath came in short gasps. "Do you know that I could end all of that, right now?" The Bluejay snarled. "One stroke could end all the misery you are causing! Yet that does not seem like enough." He was panting. He was transfigured by rage.

Slowly, the men were forming a large ring around the two men, whispering to one another. Only the Black Prince said nothing, his gaze riveted on the Bluejay. He listened intently to his words, full of hatred, full of anger and vengeance.

What was happening to the Bluejay? Had killing really transformed him into a monster? The Black Prince took a step toward the man and his captive. "Bluejay," he called softly, reaching out his hand, but stopped at the look the Bluejay turned and gave him; a look of menace, telling him to keep back. Instead the Black Prince remained where he was, several feet behind the Bluejay, who had turned to his prisoner once more.

Before him, the Adderhead shook with fright. His eyes were large with terror; his fear of death had overpowered him. His mouth moved to speak, but to no avail.

"Murderer!" Bluejay shouted. "Why should I not end your life? You yourself know that you more than deserve that!" He gripped his sword. "It will end tonight, Adderhead." He drew back the blade.

Again the Black Prince stepped forward, and again he stopped, unsure of what to do. The men around him had fallen into a stunned silence. 'What is the man thinking?' the Prince wondered.

The Bluejay clenched his teeth. Now was the time. The Adderhead had been delivered into his hands. Months of anguish would be paid for; countless lives would be avenged. The Bluejay felt nothing as he prepared to bring this to completion, nothing but cold, cold in his heart.

The Adderhead sank to the ground. A whimper escaped his lips. The Bluejay looked down on him with scorn from behind his mask. But, just as he was about to thrust, something in him stirred.

He gazed on the quivering heap of terror that was the cause of so much pain, misery, fear, and death, and something raced through his mind.

They were abstract thoughts of pity, feelings of helplessness. Yes, even now, Mo felt completely helpless. He was about to end a form of pain and misery that would only lead to another of a different kind.

He stood silently with his sword, still ready to strike, but did not move, though his face was still hard. At last he spoke. "No," he said. "I am not one to kill you. Not in cold blood."

It was at that moment that, within Mo, the conflict ceased. The two sides—Mo and the Bluejay—rose up and melded together. No longer did Mo feel he was living two lives; seeing the world interchangeably through different pairs of eyes. No longer did he feel as though his heart was covered with a shell of stone.

He thought clearly, rationally; all of his senses were keen and alert. He felt a portion of his heart that was still hardened; toughened by experience and trial, not stony with hatred. His thoughts became cunning, but level. And the eyes of the Bluejay became his own; the veil of hatred was taken away.

It was not without compassion that the Bluejay looked on the Adderhead now. The white face, streaked with fearful tears, that looked up at him did not this time bring hatred and rage whirling into his head. He lowered his sword.

"I am not like you," he said in a cold, yet even voice. "I am not a murderer. I will let you live."

A shout rang out from the soldiers whom the company had taken prisoner. They rushed forward, shoving away the men who guarded them, reclaiming their weapons. Taken unawares, the Black Prince's men were swiftly pushed back.

Just as the soldiers were about to attack, another cry rang out—a yell of terror. Men were shouting in confusion. Words such as "Wizardry!" and "It's true! The Bluejay is a wizard!" filled the air.

The sounds even reached the ears of the Bluejay. He looked over his shoulder, then spun about to face the odd apparition that penetrated the darkness.

A white ball of flame hung in mid-air, hissing, spitting sparks, and growing larger and larger. It seared the enemy's skin, heating their metal armor until, screaming with pain, they tore it off, flinging down their melting weapons as well. Mo, able to feel its intense heat even from where he stood, stared, transfixed with wonderment, oblivious to the men running and screaming around him.

The ball of flame brightened so that he had to shield his eyes with one hand. Soldiers ran blindly past in a panic, stripped of armor, their clothing and skin burned, shouting, tripping, crawling away from the thing. Only the Black Prince, the Bluejay, and those with them remained where they were.

Soon the only men left in that place were those of the Black Prince's camp. Slowly the flame dimmed, then died out. Silence ensued. For a long time nobody moved. Then, methodically, everyone began to gather the armor and weapons that the Adderhead's soldiers had dropped, some of it melted and deformed to the point of uselessness, all of it hot to the touch so that most of them kicked them with their thick, leather boots to avoid burns.

In the fray, both the Adderhead and Basta had escaped. But at the moment, that mattered little. The Bluejay still stood where he had stood before the Adderhead, dazed, but relieved. He stared at the ground, at the discarded arms about him, much of it glowing red with heat, illuminating the clearing. When Mo looked up, he saw the Black Prince standing before him.

"Roxane—?" Mo began.

"She and her son have returned to the camp," answered the Prince.

Mo nodded absently. There was a long pause, then he whispered, "That flame…I have never seen anything like it. Do you think…?"

"All I know," said the Black Prince, "is that I only ever knew one person capable of making fire like that in the air."

Mo gazed at him intently. "Dustfinger's body…"

"Gone. Roxane told me so herself. The coffin was empty even before Basta opened it." An astonished look, half-hopeful, crossed Mo's face. Before he could ask any more questions, the Prince handed him a folded piece of parchment paper. "Either Basta or the Adderhead dropped it, I am sure," he murmured as Mo silently read the words written on it.

"_Roxane was awakened by a strong desire to again gaze upon her dead husband. The guards were trapped in a deep slumber as, silently, she crept away, walking through the night until she reached her own home. From there, she turned and began to walk to the place where she had hidden the body._

"_Her son, awakened by his mother's stirrings, followed her for a time, until he saw Basta and the Adderhead, and heard them conversing about the Bluejay. From there, he ran to the Black Prince's camp with a plea for the Bluejay's help. The Bluejay went alone, impatient and desiring of revenge, to the place where Dustfinger lay, and the trap closed over him, ensnaring him like a bird in a net."_

Mo glanced at the Black Prince, who nodded. "I read it, too," he affirmed. "Orpheus must have written it and read it aloud for them; that is his hand, and no one has seen him of late. But I cannot figure out why it did not work as they planned. It all seemed to fall apart at the part about you, Buejay."

"That is because the Bluejay is not entirely what they think him to be," Mo answered with a queer smile. After having seen what he had seen that night, the Prince could only agree.

Mo had not become the Bluejay. The Bluejay had become Mo.

* * *

Well, there you are--the third chapter, written, re-written, revised, tweaked, the whole shebang. Oofta.

Honestly, the more I wrote this story, the more I found myself writing about Mo/Bluejay. Such an interesting character!...characters...

Well NOW I can say _'character'_, singular. The Mo/Bluejay issue has been officially resolved! Thank you for reading.

There WILL be some more to come.

-me


	4. The Hours Before

Before Mo and the Black Prince's men had set out for Dustfinger's grave, before Mo ceased to feel torn in two with one side of himself devouring the other, before the Adderhead's defeat by fire, Meggie had thought of something of great importance.

"Farid," she had said, "I think I know why Dustfinger still has not come back." She had stood before him, uncertainty on her face.

But her words had caught his attention. "Tell me," he had said in a serious tone.

"Not here." Meggie had glanced around at the tents that surrounded them, at the low campfires and the haggard-looking men, women, and children, before gesturing toward the trees of the darkening forest. "Further back."

Meggie had led him out of the circle of tents and deeper into the forest, past the large tree trunks and their thick roots. The dappled light from the evening sky above them played over her hair. Farid followed her until she stopped before a thick patch of bushes, the foliage just barely obscuring the tents beyond them. There Meggie had turned to face him once more.

In an unsure, but earnest voice, Meggie had stated, "I think there are too many people in the Inkworld—too many people who should not be here. That is what prevents Dustfinger's return."

Pain and guilt had washed over Farid at her words. Seeing it on his face, Meggie had said quickly, "I think we should talk to Fenoglio about sending him back to—to our world." She had ceased to think of it as the 'real' world, and barely paused before rushing on to say, "He hates it here, everyone can see it; the more time he spends here, the further down he sinks into depression. I think it would be better for him if he returned home."

Farid's heart had still felt sore, though; he felt the blame for Dustfinger's death weigh heavily on his shoulders. He dropped his head, looking down at the ground between his booted feet. He fingered the hem of his dull, brown tunic.

"Farid," Meggie had whispered, and glanced up to meet her eyes, which shone with tears, as she spoke. "His death was not your fault, no matter what anyone says. I know for certain that, if it were not for you, he would have only died sooner. You kept him alive, and I truly believe that it was you who helped him to overcome his fear of death." Farid had squeezed his eyes shut to keep back the tears as he gratefully nodded. He wanted to believe her, but could not bring himself to do it.

"Let's talk about it to Fenoglio," he had murmured, and they had returned to the camp.

But, in his gloomy state of mind, Fenoglio had opposed the idea.

"What?" Fenoglio's exclamation had made Farid and Meggie, who stood with the him in front of his tent, cringe. "Write words about me? Never! Suppose it were to take something horrible from our world and place it here in my stead? Haven't I been the cause of enough damage already? Keep your blasted words! I don't deserve it. And don't you _dare_ write something for me when I'm not looking!"

Mutely they had watched Fenoglio stalk away from them and back into his tent, which he shared with Farid. Stricken into silence, Meggie and Farid had stood for a long time, watching the shadows of the trees lengthen on the forest floor. Evening became twilight before they at last had parted ways, Meggie to the tent where she and her family stayed, the lanterns within already lit and her parents conversing quietly inside, and Farid to Fenoglio's tent, a well of cold gloom and heavy sorrow. There he stood, not wishing to venture inward just yet. Instead he sat on the ground with his chin in his hands, thinking.

Night fell, and Farid ducked into his and Fenoglio's tent, kicked the boots off of his feet, and lay down on his mat on the ground, pulling the rough blankets over himself, for it was growing cold. Insects hummed or chirped in the dark. A night bird's call rang out, and an animal barked nearby. Above the soft noise of murmuring voices outside, muffled by the blanket and the tent's coarse fabric, Farid still heard Meggie's voice in his mind, saying that she knew why Dustfinger had not returned. He knew she was right. There _were_ too many people in the Inkworld, and two of them already had escaped death.

The night wore on, and Farid remained unable to sleep. He tossed and turned, trying his best not to wake Fenoglio, whose fitful sleep was always light. Farid sighed, turned over on his back, and stared at the dark green ceiling above his head, the supporting pole starkly contrasted against it. He lay still and tried to breath slowly, but wakefulness would not be conquered. Anguish and boredom do not mix well when one wishes for sleep to bring an interval of peace to one's torment.

The one thought that ran through Farid's head was, 'The only reason _Dustfinger_ is not here is because _I_ am here.' Closing his sore eyes, he listened intently to what the men were saying at the fires outside his tent, trying to discern their exact words. He thought about what he was going to do. That was when he heard the pounding of running feet against the ground. The noise drew nearer.

Farid lifted his head, his eyes staring into the tent wall before his face as if he might look through it to see who was there. From outside someone was calling for the Bluejay. There was a faint reply from Meggie's tent and the swish of loose fabric being pushed back from the doorway it covered. Boots scuffed against the dirt ground. Farid now heard the voices clearly enough to discern who they belonged to: Mo and the Black Prince, and, he realized distastefully, Roxane's son.

Quietly slipping out of his bed, Farid clumsily flung a cloak over his shoulders, shoved his feet into his boots, and stepped outside. The Black Prince and Jehan were no longer there when Farid lifted the tent flap and stepped outside. His eyes darted to where he had last heard the voices and alighted on Mo, hurrying into his own tent. He could hear Mo and Resa speaking in low tones. Sounds of a sword and other weapons being sheathed and gathered together reached Farid's ears as he stood outside, waiting, unsure of what to do.

When Mo reappeared, he wore the Bluejay mask over his eyes, the blue, gold, brown, and white feathers seemed to burn in the light from the campfires; the black feathers seemed to shine out darkly.

Mo's mouth was grave, and the eyes he turned upon Farid burned like black fire.

"What's wrong?" Farid asked nervously. He had never seen Mo look so dark as he did now, seemingly a part of the night. "What's happening?"

"It's Basta," Mo growled, his grip on the hilt of his sword tightening. "He and the Adderhead are up to something by Dustfinger's grave. They followed Roxane there—she could be in trouble. I'm taking a group of men to the place. Roxane's son will lead me."

Farid was at once filled with hatred at Basta's name. He pictured Basta's face in his mind, a mocking smile on his pale lips and malice in his eyes. Farid longed to deal the final death-blow to Basta, the man who was ultimately responsible for Dustfinger's demise. "Let me go with you," Farid said determinedly, his shoulders squared. "I can help." But Mo shook his head.

"Not this time, Farid," Mo said sternly. "You stay behind. You cannot help us now."

Farid was stung, and it showed on his face. "But I can! I can use fire against them! You'll let Roxane's son go along, why not me? Please, let me come—I want to help! I owe it to Dustfinger. You _must_ let me come!"

"No!" Farid jumped at the sharpness in Mo's voice. "Farid, I don't have time to argue with you. Jehan is only coming because he knows the way. I have to go now. Stay here." He whirled and ran into the middle of the camp, where a large group of armed men were gathering.

Farid watched them, enviously eyeing Roxane's son as he stood by Mo. Jehan's eyes flitting about the camp. When they lighted on Farid, who stood watching him with jealousy, a look of contempt filled Jehan's face. He grinned at Farid arrogantly, straightening himself and lifting his head high, knowing that he was to accompany the men while Farid was not.

Farid glared back. 'You have no reason to resent me,' he thought at the younger boy. Anger and shame at being denied permission to go with the men burned inside Farid as they marched out into the dark of the trees, their boots crunching softly on dried leaves and twigs and their weapons glinting in the dim light of the moon.

Never had Farid felt so useless. He stiffly turned his back on the sight and sounds and walked to Meggie's tent, his mind made up.

Inside the tent, Resa stood with a worried look on her face. Meggie stood beside her, her mother's arm about her slender, cloaked shoulders. They looked at Farid with relief and concern; immediately he knew that they had heard his and the Bluejay's exchange, and his face darkened. But he shook it off.

"Meggie," Farid whispered, "I must speak with you."

Meggie nodded, slipping from under her mother's arm. She led Farid into the back of the tent, where a small lantern was lit beside her bed on the ground. A curtain separated them from the front of the tent, where Resa remained, worry on her face. Meggie sat down on her bed, motioning Farid to do so also. The light of the lantern flickered on their faces, catching the vibrant blue of Meggie's dress and cloak. Meggie herself was silent, as if she already knew what it was that Farid was going to say.

At last, Farid took a deep breath to begin, pushing his black hair from his eyes with his hand. In a choked voice he said, "Meggie, send me back to my world! We both know that I don't belong here, or in your world. Wherever I go, I am useless—nothing but a burden. Besides, if it brings Dustfinger back, it will be well worth it."

"No, Farid!" she cried out softly, violently shaking her head and pressing her hands against her hears, as if her worst fear had just been realized.

"Please, Meggie, do it! Send me back! Write the words that will send me back to my world—to my story, the one I came from."

Meggie continued to shake her head, staring at him, tears streaking her face. "If you leave, then I will go with you, and you cannot stop me."

"No. You must stay here. My story is no place for you. And this world needs you and your voice. You, your father, your mother, even Fenoglio—together you can fix everything that has happened. But I am useless. I have done nothing of value here. It is better if I go back where I came from, back to my own story."

"No! Please, let me write you back to _my_ world, not yours!" Her hands were shaking.

"Meggie, you have to send me back to mine! Please, if not for Dustfinger, then for me! I feel I will die if I stay here much longer." He placed his hand on hers. "Please write it." With his other hand, he picked up her notebook and her pencil from the floor where they lay.

Meggie took the things in her hand and set them on her lap, but made no move to use them. "I can help you," Farid said, coming around behind her and placing his hands on her shoulders. Meggie placed her pencil on the paper, and stopped.

"I can't write it, Farid," she sobbed. The grief of losing Farid, who was so much more to her than just a friend, was almost too much to bear, and prevented her from forming the words he needed.

Farid paused, then, in a far-off voice, began to dictate, his arms about Meggie's waist as she shakily wrote down the words he spoke.

"'_Farid was no longer needed in the world of Ink. Too many already lived there who did not belong, and Farid belonged least of all. So at last, in order to bring back Dustfinger, Farid returned to his own world, the place where he was born and had grown up.'"_

Trembling, Meggie made the last few strokes with her pencil, tears streaming down her face. Then, dropping pencil and paper, she flung her arms about Farid and sobbed. Farid held her tightly to himself, knowing that it would be the last time he would see Meggie. Tears streamed down his face as well, and his body shook. They held each other in the embrace for several minutes, their hearts aching with deep sorrow.

At last Farid pulled away. He could not bear it anymore. Already he missed Meggie terribly, more terribly than he thought was possible. "Read me back now, Meggie," he hissed.

Meggie opened her lips to protest, but, seeing how earnest Farid was, turned her eyes to the paper. Through eyes blurred with tears she read the words to herself, then prepared to read them out loud.

The tent flap burst open. Resa gave a cry of surprise.

"Where is the Bluejay?" Orpheus demanded. Upon hearing his voice, Meggie and Farid threw back the curtain and stepped into the outer part of the tent.

There stood Orpheus, sweat drenching his white shirt and his round, fat face. He was wheezing, having had to run to the camp.

"He—he's gone," Resa quavered an answer.

"NO!" cried Orpheus, in hysterics. He sank to the ground, a quivering heap. "What have I done?" His voice was strangled.

"What is it?" Farid asked, trying to keep the coldness from showing in his voice, for the sight of Orpheus made his blood boil.

Orpheus continued to sob into the earthen floor. "I wrote words for them," his voice was muffled by the ground. "Terrible words! Now they are going to Dustfinger's grave. Who knows what they will do to him? And to Roxane—what have I done?"

"Tell us what you mean!" Farid cried, alarmed. "Wrote words for whom? What words?" He was growing impatient.

"For Basta!" Orpheus cried, lifting his head so they could hear him clearly. "And for the Adderhead! They found me alone in the woods, and they forced me to write words that would make Roxane go to her husband's tomb so that they could follow her there. Her son would seek the Bluejay's help and lead him there—into a trap! Tell me! Did it happen thus?"

Resa and Meggie had gone white, but Resa, horrified, replied, "Yes."

Orpheus wailed. "Who knows what they will do to him! What they will do to Dustfinger, and to Roxane, and Jehan, and the Bluejay! It's all my fault…"

Orpheus' act of faithlessness sickened Farid and made him despise the man a hundred times more than he despised Basta or the Adderhead. "Traitor," Farid snarled with hate.

"Farid!" Meggie's voice was reproachful and fearful for her father.

Orpheus raised his eyes, looking up at Farid with dislike written plainly on his face. "You're in no place to blame _me_, boy! If it were not for _you_, none of this would have happened in the first place! Dustfinger would still be _alive_ were it not for you!"

"Shut up!" Farid screamed, covering his ears. "That's not true! You are a liar!"

Meggie interrupted. "Orpheus," she quavered, "tell us exactly what you wrote!"

Orpheus glared at her. "Why should I? I don't take orders from little girls!"

Resa slapped him across the face. "Listen to us!" her voice shook with rage. "If you don't tell us what you wrote, then we won't be able to help you, and they will destroy Dustfinger, and the Bluejay, and then all hope will be lost for the Inkworld! They will find us and kill us all, so tell us what you wrote."

Orpheus rubbed his cheek, which was red from the slap he had received. "I wrote that Roxane would return to her home. Basta and the Adderhead planned to wait for her there, so that they could follow her when she turned and headed to Dustfinger's grave. Jehan also would follow her, and then run to seek the Bluejay's aid. Then, alone, the Bluejay would race to Dustfinger's grave—"

"Wait!" Resa cried, confused. "Did you say, he would go _alone_?"

"Yes." Orpheus was confused by the hope in their faces. "Why?"

"He took men with him—many, many armed men. Together they have gone to help Roxane, led by Jehan."

All of them fell silent, pondering, trying to think what could have prevented the words from working the way they were intended.

"The words were flawed, or they were not read correctly," Meggie surmised at length.

"The words were FINE, and I read them perfectly!" Orpheus bellowed. "They were faultless! If anything is flawed, it is your_ father!"_

Meggie, Resa, and Farid looked at him with surprise and disgust. "The point is," Meggie countered, "my father will survive."

"No thanks to _you_, Cheeseface, you _traitor!"_ Farid shouted.

"They would have killed me!" Orpheus roared, jumping up from the dirt floor and leaping at Farid.

"If it were me, I would have been happy to die!" Farid replied angrily, stepping away from Orpheus. Neither of them saw Meggie scribbling.

"Stupid boy," Orpheus hissed. "Why don't you go back home? You don't belong here!"

"You don't either!" Meggie shouted at Orpheus. But she hesitated, looking uncertainly down at her sheet of paper. Would the words she had written there work, even though they were written imperfectly? What would happen if they did _not_ work? But when she saw Orpheus with his hand around Farid's throat, Meggie knew she had to try. Quickly, she began to read.

"'_Orpheus was no longer needed in the world of Ink.'" _The words dripped with coldness and anger toward Orpheus, and hung around the four of them like drops of ice. The air in the tent grew frigid.

"NO!" Orpheus screamed. He let go of Farid and stumbled toward Meggie, his arm outstretched to snatch the paper away, but Meggie recoiled. Farid stepped between the two of them, gasping, holding his throat with one hand and swinging at Orpheus with the other. They grappled with each other. Meggie read on.

"'_Too many already lived there who did not belong, and Orpheus belonged least of all. So at last, in order to bring back Dustfinger, Orpheus returned to his own world, the place where he was born and had grown up.'"_

Still holding onto each other, both Farid and Orpheus began to fade. "Farid!" Meggie screamed, dropping her notebook. She grabbed onto his arm and pulled as hard as she possibly could, but Orpheus' grip on the boy was strong. "Let go!" she yelled through clenched teeth. She felt her mother wrap her arms about her waist, and the two of them pulled.

Together they strained as Orpheus clawed at Farid. The fat man's grip was loosening, but still strong. He was pulling Farid back into his world, where no one would be able to save him from Orpheus or himself. They knew what the man was capable of doing. He was treacherous.

Meggie could not bear to lose her friend. She needed him, and so would Dustfinger. But Farid's grip on the two of them was slipping. He still wished to leave the realm of Ink.

Suddenly the reason that Farid should remain in the Inkworld dawned on Meggie. She could not believe that she had not thought of it before, and realized that if Farid knew it, too, it would revitalize his will to remain. It would be enough to pull him free of the powerful words' pull.

"Farid," Meggie shouted, "Dustfinger loved you! He loved you more than he loved himself. If he finds that you are gone when he returns, he will wish he had not returned. He will die of a broken heart, and he will never return. Only you can save his life! You must be here when he returns. He died for you because he could not live without you!"

It worked. Her words brought Farid's strength back, and she could see it on his glowing face. Fading though they were, Meggie saw his eyes brighten, and he tightened his grip on her hands.

With one final yank, Meggie and Resa wrenched Farid from Orpheus' grasp, and they fell backward in a heap on the ground.

Orpheus gave one last, muffled cry that hung in the dense air, and he vanished.

Panting, Farid, Meggie, and Resa stood. "We did it," Meggie said, relieved. She picked up her paper. With her pencil, she had crossed out Farid's name and written Orpheus' above it. She showed the paper to Resa and Farid.

"Thank you," Farid said, squeezing her tightly. "Thank you, Meggie. I did not want to go back—I truly didn't. Thank you."

--

Mo, smelling of sweat and smoke, wearied but relieved of a great burden, returned to his tent to find Resa, Meggie, and Farid waiting anxiously inside. With cries of joy, they crowded around him, embracing him, asking him if he was all right. Love surged up inside Mo as he dropped his cloak, mask, and weapons on the floor and hugged them back, assuring them that everything would be fine now.

"Dustfinger?" Farid's voice was barely above a whisper.

"His body was gone," Mo answered. At the terrified look on Farid's face, he added, "It was gone before Basta and the Adderhead got there. No one knows where he is."

Excitement showed on Meggie's and Farid's faces as Meggie handed her notebook to Mo. They explained the reasoning behind what she had written, told him what Orpheus had said and done, and that they had sent him back to their own world.

"Do you think I was right that too many people were here?" Meggie asked, gazing into her father's deep eyes, eyes that could pierce, but held a great wisdom and understanding, eyes that were tinged with cunning and pain, but soft with tenderness. "Do you think it worked?"

"When exactly did you read this?" Mo asked, gesturing to Meggie's notebook.

"A few hours ago, I think," Meggie answered.

Mo smiled and nodded. "Meggie," he said, "I think you have saved Dustfinger's life—and countless others as well."

Farid placed his arms around Meggie in a loving embrace. "Including mine," he breathed.

* * *

Well, there you have it at last--the fourth chapter.

Is it just me, or did Farid do a lot of just plain standin' in this chapter?

But take it from me: when someone is dead and events seem to be out of control, one does a lot of that.


	5. Flames That Dance

Dustfinger crouched in the dark woods, across from his own grave.

'_My_ grave,' he thought, bewildered. Cool rain fell against his skin. Closing his eyes, Dustfinger lifted up his head and let the water fall on his face. With his eyes still closed, he whispered fire-words, and tiny white flames flared up between his fingers, dancing and licking his hands, caressing him as a dog caresses its master when he returns from a long journey, and at once Dustfinger was filled with a sense of longing; longing for his family: his wife, Roxane, his daughter, Brianna…his son, Farid.

Dustfinger leaned back against the thick oak tree behind him and extinguished the flame. The puff of smoke it sent up hung before his face for several seconds before being dissipated by the rain. The rain was growing heavier, but he did not mind, filling his lungs with the fresh, damp air.

It felt so good just to breathe, and to feel the air he was breathing.

He had no memory of the shadowlands—only a dim sensation of cold and dark and nothingness; emptiness.

What confusion he had experienced to suddenly open his eyes to some place other than the shadowlands. He had not known where he was, or why he was there. He felt as though he had closed his eyes in one place and opened them in another after a bleak, horrible dream.

Death was a strange thing. 'But can one really die in this world?' Dustfinger was no longer sure of his world, a world spun of inkblood and paper; but was his world truly as thin as paper?

Dustfinger closed his eyes to his surroundings and placed his palm against the cold, muddy ground. 'Real enough,' he thought. No; his world was not flimsy and thin. It was simply a world within another world, but completely separate from it, too. And it was very real, no matter how unsure he was.

There was one thing of which Dustfinger was certain: Basta was alive. He did not know what convinced him of the notion, but somehow, he knew that Basta had cheated death.

Much as he wished to return to his family, he knew that he must face his old enemy.

The air before Dustfinger moved; the wet leaved before him rustled. He did not have to open his eyes to know that Basta stood before him, as if called into being by his thoughts.

"I have been waiting for you, my old friend." Dustfinger's voice felt odd in his throat; solid, tangible, real. But it lacked any feeling, simply stating a fact that told him by his mind and his heart. He opened his eyes.

Basta's face wore an expression halfway between a smug smile and a glower. "Have you, now?" he snarled. "I suppose you know also what I am about to say?"

Dustfinger rose to his feet. Basta always had been taller than him, but now he seemed so small, so insignificant, like a moth, pale and fluttering compared to a graceful, swooping bird.

"That depends upon your choice of words," Dustfinger's voice showed that he felt no fear, and it angered Basta; Dustfinger could see that plainly, and he smiled a queer smile. "Do you still feel it, Basta? Those cold fingers of death, pressing against your throat, wrapping around your heart? They say that those who escape death so dishonestly always do, for the rest of their lives. It is like a curse. Or do you not believe in curses? Anymore, I mean."

Basta's eyes, for a brief moment, betrayed that Dustfinger's talk unnerved him, and his hand twitched as if it wished to feel his heart beating, or his pale throat, to be sure there were no fingers there, but then he grinned. "I can see that you no longer fear death; it is apparent upon your every feature. Not your own death, at any rate. But what about your dear Roxane? Surely you wouldn't wish to return only to lose her—or your daughter Brianna? Gone before you even had a chance to really know her. Or Farid! Do you suppose death would be willing to make the same bargain twice?" He laughed hollowly.

Dustfinger's face remained unmoved, and Basta's laughter died instantly. "Or has death made you so callous as to cease to care for them?" his voice was low and husky. "Do you regret it? Switching places with that worthless boy? Oh yes, I know all about that; there are no secrets among the White Women. Such sacrifice, O' Noble Dustfinger! Such selflessness! Everyone sings of it! And how it made me wish to wring his scrawny neck! Are those who die in vain still called heroes? Like Violante's late husband?"

Slowly, Dustfinger began to speak. "I know your words, Basta, and what they are—empty and void; meaningless, full of hatred and fear. No, you have not lost your fear of death. It is more apparent each time you speak. Indeed, you fear it now more than ever before! Am I not right?"

"No more than _I_ am about you fearing your loved ones' deaths! Perhaps I should send them all to it this very day! No bargain you could ever make would bring back that many, I know that for a fact!"

At once Dustfinger broke forth in a cry that resounded throughout the dark forest; a shout without words or body, but full of meaning, and from his very being sprung up angry, white flame, flames that consume; hissing and snarling, roaring with an animal voice, hungry and enraged. It engulfed Dustfinger, and spread to the ground, the trees, and the rocks about him, which grew white with head but did not melt.

Basta's mouth opened to scream but no sound came forth, so great was his terror. He stared wide-eyed at the flames about him, lighting up the forest, dispersing every shadow from their midst.

Dustfinger remained motionless in the heart of the flame; only his lips moved, forming the fire-words that made the flames so angry and perilous.

"Cease your empty threats, you coward!" Dustfinger's voice rose above the sound of the roaring flames. "For I do not fear death any more than I fear you! Fear has no power over me anymore. But its grip upon you will not loosen, not as long as you live. Also, know this—the day you send another soul to the shadowlands is they day you return there yourself, and it will be worse for you than it was before."

Basta stumbled backward and fell, his mouth open in horror. Before his wide eyes Dustfinger had seemed to transform from a man back from the dead to a man immortal, without fear or anger; only a righteous fury. There was no bitterness in him. His words were not spoken in rage, but in pure truth—pure truth, and love for his family and friends.

From the flames Dustfinger stared down at Basta, his eyes burning whiter than the fire. They held no malice, nor any threat, but a nameless expression that stabbed Basta with terror.

Dustfinger's lips began to silently move, and the great flames began to change shape. They ceased to hiss and spit and began to quietly whisper in a light, wailing voice. _'Basta…'_ they called his name. Slowly their forms changed to those of tall, wispy women in flowing white gowns, their faces inexpressive and flickering, their hair floating, and their blank eyes all fixed on Basta.

Trembling, Basta began to crawl backward away from them, but they advanced toward him, gradually drawing near, unwavering. They were surrounding him, and the heat from their fiery bodies was so intense it made him sweat. His ragged, muddy shirt flapped in the wind created by the heat.

Now the women were reaching their ghostly arms out to him, their hands open and their thin fingers outspread. Basta shrunk down close to the ground and stared up at them, breathless with fear, his heart pounding. They drew closer, more tightly around him, so that he could see nothing beyond their fiery forms.

The one closest to him reached out her flaming, searing fingers and touched his skin—but it did not burn. Instead, Basta felt the coldest of chills pass through him, like frigid waters engulfing one who has fallen through the ice. In enveloped his heart, and for a moment he thought it had stopped beating. With one hand, he clutched at his heaving chest.

The one who had touched him stepped back, and the heat from her skirts of fire began to melt the rocks about her feet.

"Only the very wicked feel the touch of Winter from white flame," Dustfinger's voice carried over the whispering. At the sound of his voice the fiery forms retreated. As they did so, they lost their form and became simply white flames once more, shrinking, lessening as they neared the feet of Dustfinger. Finally they all had disappeared except for one tiny white tongue upon his finger.

The forest was silent and dark once more, but the flame was bright enough to illuminate both Basta's and Dustfinger's faces. "The freezing touch of fire," Dustfinger murmured, almost to himself, but his eyes were on Basta. "You feel it now in your heart, do you not? It is a mark, a mark felt only by yourself, but visible and calling aloud to death. And the moment you summon death by taking another's life, you will have summoned it to yourself, and it will take you." A smile passed over his lips. "As far and as fast as you run, as often you hide, you will not escape what holds your heart captive—until the day you die, or until the day your heart is changed."

The flame flickering on Dustfinger's finger took the shape of a heart, and pulsed and throbbed in the air and turned from white to red. Dustfinger's voice was barely audible as he whispered a single word: "Leave."

Basta leaped to his feet and fled blindly through the trees, his fingers pressed against his chest, his mouth hanging open in a soundless scream.

Dustfinger watched him in silence, then turned away, into the trees, and began to walk by the light of the flame on his hand, which was once again white and formless as a tongue of flame.

--

The sky was beginning to lighten over the Black Prince's silent camp. Farid sat alone, staring blankly into a small fire, tears streaming down his face. He could not say exactly why he wept, but his heart ached within him so that he could not help it. It was sore from disappointment and exhaustion, from fear and sorrow, and Farid was glad that the men of the camp were too weary to have risen yet and thus see him crying.

As he stared at the flame, he fathomed that he saw the flames grow brighter. The orange light began to deepen into a brighter red, and they began to grow. The redness slowly changed to blue. Farid wiped his tears away and stared, afraid that his blurred eyes were deceiving him, but they were not. He watched, not breathing, as the flames became white, whiter than snow, and taller. Their crackling sounded like words; soft, inaudible words, words he could not understand.

Then the words grew louder._ 'Farid,'_ they whispered. _'Farid.'_ Farid jumped up, heart racing.

"Yes?" his voice was so soft that he himself hardly heard it.

"_Farid, my son."_ The voice did not come from the flame, but from somewhere beyond and behind him. He spun around, and his heart nearly stopped.

There stood Dustfinger, beneath the shadow of the trees. Eyes on Farid, he stepped forward, a loving smile on his lips.

Farid remained where he was. The tears had come pouring down again; a torrent of happy tears. He shook his head, and a choked, joyful laugh escaped from his throat. "Dustfinger," he whispered in a hoarse voice.

He took a hesitant step forward, as if unsure that Dustfinger was real, flesh and blood. He took another step, slowly and disbelievingly walking toward him.

As the two drew closer to each other, a ring, formed by several, flickering tongues of fire, appeared, hanging in the air about them: flames that danced, flames that sang the song of joy in both of their hearts.

_The End_

_

* * *

_

Finished! I hope you liked it!

This chapter was the shortest, and yet it took me the longest. I struggle with endings. It's the most important part of a story.

And I hold a belief - more of a standard for myself, really - that the last chapter should either be the longest, the shortest, and nowhere in between.

Thanks for reading!


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